Young Smith's Story
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: Written in the language of A Clockwork Orange. What if they are teenagers and their fights take place in the backstreets and schoolyards? Nadsat bandas at war!


"There you are, Lord and Ursurper", I told myself while ittying up the starry staircase of Granny's house. I had decided to pay her a visit and viddy who had that much influence on all the marauding malchickiwicks of the area. For this was what you usually slooshied of Granny, they all were swarming around her like vonny stableflies, this being because she was a like wise ptitsa, so they said, and she always came up with advice for you. So I had decided to check on her, as I was like the biggest bully on the playground, together with my droogies, Mickie and Chuckie, and I always had to know what the bratchnies out there were playing at. I had left my droogies down at the entrance to guard it and to give old Larry's gang a like warm welcome if they should show their grahzny litsos.

They were our favourite enemies, Larry's laddies, we always having real horrorshow dratsing and dealing out tolchocks between us. It had been like this for quite a time now, warpath and bloodshed and shiny glory. We fought it out whenever we had the chance, on the street just as well as at school.

Larry was a year over me, a senior, and a dark-skinned bolshy big malchick. We hated each other like fire and water. But my like fav was Tommy, seemingly Larry's right-hand-man. We equalled each other in technique and recklessness, and his tolchocks weren't that bad, but I clearly surpassed him in one veshch: I was street-wise. While I had been a gang malchick for almost the whole of my jeezny and knew every trick one could play out there, he was shiny new. Larry had recruited him only last year, while I had been bratties with Chuckie for many years, and also for quite a time with Mickie, the youngest of us, and long-time ally of Johnston and Barnhardt from next door. I just knew the business, and that made the bolshy difference.

As I arrived up there, she let me in straight away, and I was like surprised how velicky she was, that starry forella, I even hardly dare to call her so, one of the sort you treat with respect straight away, hell aye, and where you watch your goloss. I even wiped my boots - real horrorshow ones which had tasted floods of fresh krovvy - when entering her coneyhole, and I took my black otchkies off. Black otchkies, this was what we used to wear, us and Larry's lot. I don't remember who like started it, yet we all wore them on the street, real fancy ones like you viddy in the sinny.

"So you have come at last", she said. I grew a malenky bit nervous because she knew me straight away, but then again, I'm a bolshy big shot, so why shouldn't she? "You are going to find a nice surprise this afternoon", she said as she led me in, and I wondered what the flaming hell she was govoreeting about. But however, it didn't really matter. "By the way, you're not my only guest."

And what beheld my shiny glazzies? In her kitchen, there was Switch. She's one of Larry's gang, one of his two ptitsas, the two I have promised to take as mine when viddying them all on their oddy knocky. I had been after the other one, Carrie, originally, but she had given me such a nasty grahzny tolchock on the gulliver once, hell, I had blacked out, krovvy flowing, thrice hailing infinity and prepared to meet Bog Himself in shiny Heaven. To go after Switchy-Witchy was a better idea, she also had nice groodies on her, and she also was the fighter sort I fancy so much.

Of course there was no fillying and dratsing allowed now, us being with Granny - although I'd actually have appreciated having it -, and I used my gentleman's manners and goloss, the real like made-for-gossuderry veshch. I even like helped Granny baking cookies while I govoreeted with her (Mick and Chuck will never know) and spent a like horrorshow midday. I tried to approach Switch the nice squiggly-wiggly way, yet she said she didn't like malchicks with ponytails, but they were better than those with the britva-shave on their gulliver, the veshch old Larry had and Reagan her droogie, aye Master of Disaster, and she would have a thinky about it. Quoth Switch. I didn't even deal her one when she called me Master of Disaster, although all the bandas are the hell to call me their Lord and Ursurper or else have one on the rot. "Righto, Switchy-Witchy", I said, "thou art my maiden of choice, to hell with it, and thou shalt be mine mine mine." She had a horrorshow smeck at that, answering something like "you're so charming" or some veshch like that. 

When we got down I whistled for Mickie and Chuckie, but off they had ittied, the traitorous bratchnies, leaving me on my oddy knocky with Switch - and Carrie and Tommy. I have always been like daring, like jolly-go-lucky sort, but taking them both single-handed - flaming folly. Tommy and I used to have real bad tolchocking between us, but he was a lot of rabbit to handle all alone. Bolshy big surprise, hell aye.

I decided to play it cool, quite cooly cool is always the best way. "Heyo", I said therefore, staring Tommy straight in his otchkies-covered glazzies, "thou looking for competition?"

"Lord and God", Tommy mocked me. "Your Divine Highness. Long time no viddy. This time, time for govoreeting, my droog."

"Govoreeting?" I couldn't believe my ookos. What the bloody hell was that bratchnie up to?

Carrie stood forth, giving me another chance to viddy her perfect plott. "Now slooshy. It's a real horrorshow chance to prove what you're able to, my dear friend. You're needed. You claim you're skorry?"

"Horrorshow skorry" I answered proudly, glazzies still wandering over her.

"And you're bolshy strong?"

"If you put it like that." I had a nice smeck for myself. They actually almost seemed like to need my help.

"And you're a team veck?" Switch put in.

"Never been a family man", I had to disappoint her. "Rather on my oddy knocky, begging your bloody pardon."

"But a sportsman", Carrie continued. "I believe you play soccer with your droogies and a pack of malenky malchicks?"

"Aye, Lady", I had to admit. "True slovo hath reached thy ooko."

"I viddied it with my own glazzies", Tommy said, Switch nodding right right right next to me. "And I wondered, droogie, if there's any chance to get you play basketball?"

That was queer indeed, old Tommy asking me to play basketball. Me, the Overlord. Yet before I could utter a single slovo, Switch had her rooker on my arm. "So strong", she like whispered to me, just the way the right devotchka could make me melt. "It will be but a malenky bit of rabbit for you, Lordie, hottest malchick in town."

This was the point where I couldn't resist any longer, so I said: "Righto, O my brother and sisters, what is there to do?"

Then they told me. Tommy had opened his big grahzny rot too wide and said they'd thrash any banda of malchicks at basketball, he and some droogies of his. Now they had put up a horrorshow opposing team, and it seemed like Tommy might get one for his boastful slovos. They were in like trouble, so they asked me, skorry strong malchick who would hopefully not traitorously let them down. As a reward I should get some of the pretty polly involved in the bet.

We arranged a meeting at Larry's mesto, then I ittied off whistling to tear my faithless droogs' gullivers off. I had found them in a couple of minootas, them sitting in a vonny starry bar, and had them squealing in another couple of minootas, begging for mercy for old Bog's sake. They got one more tolchock each, then I left them to their howling and ittied back on the street, commanding them to come after me righty right on time.

Later we met at Larry's mesto. Mickie and Chuckie were horrorshow perfect on time, having learnt their lesson. There they were, Larry's bolshy lot, Tommy, Carrie, Switch, Julian, Matt and Reagan; only their backup-men, Marc and Ray, were not present. And there was old Larry himself, horrorshow smug with his yellow tie. There was a growl from those grahzny malchicks when we arrived, all in our street uniforms, even the white shirts shiny clean, but Larry made them shut their rots.

There was a bolshy big deal of govoreeting about who should be on the team. Matt desperately wanted to, but he's a malenky piece of a malchick, like baby prestoopnick, and nobody wanted him. Julian volunteered to be on the bench, Mickie too, falling over each other to be out of choice real skorry. In the end there were Tommy, Reagan, Carrie, Chuck and me for the like main team, Larry, Switch and Julian for the vonny bench and Matt and Mickie for cheerleaders. Mick was glad he had come off like that and started a very unvelicky dance, so I jumped on his nogas real horrorshow, him creeching murder like bezoomny and the others having a good smeck.

Then we turned to the platties we would wear, as all should wear the same. Larry's banda were all for their own platties, like cyberpunk outfit, with real horrorshow boots to kick litsos in. Yet Mickie, Chuckie and me wanted to keep our own, white shirt, dark trousers and jacket. There was a bit of nasty fillying until we finally agreed on wearing like boring normal platties, shorts, T-shirts and trainers. Matt wanted a T-shirt with offensive slovos on it, but Larry kept saying no no no, and Matt started boohoohooing.

Just then Larry's P and M came in, saying: "Laurence, you know we have visitors today. Either you all quiet down a bit, or you have to party on somewhere else."

Reagan, bolshy brutal malchick as he is, asked Larry why he allowed his P and M to govoreet this way, but Larry just said: "Right right right, O my mother and father. Who of you, my faithful droogies, will house us then?"

"Me!" old Tommy volunteered. "'Round the corner, no big itty."

So we got our veshches together and ittied over to Tommy's. His M was at home and took us in with greater delight than I had imagined. She knew all of old Larry's banda, and Tommy gave her the names of Chuck, Mick and me before he led us off to his own mesto.

Then I viddied that Tommy had a real horrorshow mesto, big one with balcony, three bookshelves and his own compy, a horrorshow one, rather new, shiny good hardware, even a strong speaker system. On the walls there were many movie posters, which he had probably pinched from the sinny, or else they must have been really expensive. He even had a bunk bed, so one of his droogies could spend the night at his place, right under a picture of a Nebula B star cruiser battling an old Republican Blockade Runner flanked by several X-Wing fighters. In the background there was something looking like a Victory Class Star Destroyer, or maybe Imperial Class, you couldn't viddy it that clearly. Anyway, if I was in command of the Blockade Runner, I'd have the jump to hyperspace calculated real skorry.

We sat down on the floor, munching away at the kleb and biscuits Tommy's M had brought us and govoreeting about basketball and how we were going to win, Switch quite close to me, resting the gulliver on my pletcho. I suddenly thought of Granny's like prophecy, smiling inwardly.

There was so much to discuss, and it got spooky dark outside before we even noticed it. Tommy and Larry wouldn't let Matt itty home on his oddy knocky now as he lived rather far off, so Matt should stay until the morning. Switch and Julian also decided to stay, and so did Carrie, while Larry and Reagan ittied off home. Tommy said that there was room enough for my gang, too, and especially Mickie liked the idea, so I said righto. I just had to get my things if I was to be on the team tomorrow, and Switch too, so together we started off into the now inky black nochy. The streets were deserted this time, only a few starry drunkards around. Yet just like Larry and Reagan I was not frightened to be on my oddy knocky at night, hell nay, for never had any veck dared to attack a tall, strong malchick like me. Besides, I was known and feared as Lord and Ursurper, as the banda nadsats used to call me, and I was easy to make out even after nightfall, being one of very few malchicks with a ponytail.

I took Switch up to my own mesto, for we had come up with the idea that she could wear some of my sports platties tomorrow, and besides, it would take much longer if we ittied to her home as well.

While she took some of my platties to the bathroom to try them on, I busied myself with my most treasured possession: my good old blaster. It was a horrorshow gun, a Desert Eagle, and I had pinched it from a drunken rozz after sending him to viddy the multi-colour stars. I loved it dearly and cleaned it at least once a fortnight, but I used it only rarely, owing to the fact that munition was hard to get your rookers on. There was a nice store hidden in my cupboard, together with cock and screw of the gun. I took it all out now, then dived under my bed for the gun itself, then climbed the shelf for the spare mags. I have always kept these things apart, for the case that some grahzny veck wanted to crast it, or that Mickie and Chuckie once in their jeezny wanted to have a go with it. Then I squatted down on the floor with my back to the window and put it together. Especially the screw was not that easy, but I had worked it out pretty skorry, and now it took me just a few seconds, holding the gun with the left rooker and ramming the bloody screw in with the right. After that I filled up all four mags, slid one inside the old blaster and clicked up the lock mode. I couldn't resist pulling back the barrel, once more experiencing that real horrorshow feeling of one of the shotties wandering up nicely, ready to be out and off whistling. Then I got the old britva from the drawer and shoved it in the belt, next to the pocket-nozh.

Finally I had a malenky think about what to wear. I came up with my old black swimming shorts and sports sabogs, and at last I chose a Metallica T-shirt I had hardly ever worn yet. I used to like Metallica, but was no real fan, as I preferred slooshying good old Richie - Richard Wagner, that is. His music always made me feel like I could crush all the world real horrorshow, me being the lord of thunder and lightning, bolshy lot of wailing vecks trembling at my feet. I knew most of the slovos by heart and even understood them, this being one of the reasons why I was top of my vonny class at German.

Those platties didn't look too bad together, so I stuffed them in my bag and called for Switch to put some skor on. She really appeared straight away, with some of my platties on that were overlarge for her, looking like I could like devour her on the spot. That I didn't do, though, just said: "Well well well, Switchy-Witch, li'l darling, looking real horrorshow, goloovka", she going flaming red in the litso. Although there was that grahzny promise of mine of taking the ptitsas like I wanted them when I had them in my clawing rookers, I didn't do anything to her, not the ultra-violence, not the old in-out. Malchicks will be malchicks, so I told myself, having a mental smeck at my own Lordship, the big-rot boy, it was just the same with me. I waited for her to change back to her own platties, then only held out my rooker for her, and she took it, fingers trembling as they touched. And off we ittied, out into the spooky nochy.

We didn't get too far, though. Soon we heard the old siren, and we knew the millicents were ahunt again. For Switch this didn't matter, she having shiny clean records and being a devotchka. But my lordly self was well known for being involved in some grahzny veshches and suspected for ruining a government copter. This was a nasty starry story - well, not that starry actually - from the times when Tommy and I had wished each other dead and ripped up. Mickie, Chuckie and I had got at Larry at last, and Tommy and Carrie had turned up in defence. I had had it out with them on the top roof of a velicky hotel finally, real horrorshow location, and Carrie had got me hard, like I have mentioned before. Coming to again, I had been so razdraz bezoomny I had got out of my own control. Viddying them trying to escape in a copter parked there (Carrie's P is a pilot, that's where she learned it), I drew my old blaster and pang pang pang blew holes in the hull. The three of them had barely escaped with their lives, not having the veshch actually running then, just like two meters up, but the copter had crashed down again and VOOM! exploded real horrorshow, eye candy like you get in the sinny. It was a miracle how we all had escaped from the rozzes, or else we might have all ended up in the fithy vonny old Staja. It had gone through all the bloody papers, Youth Gangs Battling On Roof Top, Government Helicopter Blown Up, Major Damages Through Vandalism, and all that cal. We all had gone into hiding, yet in the nadsat underground I still was the celebrated hero who had set such a great act against the grahzny vonny Authorities. And although the cops couldn't prove it, they were suspicious, something they were flaming right about.

Now Switch and I ducked into a dark entrance, slooshying the their goloss drawing nearer and nearer. They were coming with light, and they would soon be upon us, so we decided to run for it. And how we ran! The wind whipped at my voloss, nogas pounding the street, cries from behind, two or three accursed bullets whistling over our gullivers. They had viddied us, blasted sods, and they wanted to check on us. I guessed they were of the like sort I had met before, big grahzny bratchnies loving the ultra-violence done to young malchicks, especially to banda leaders like the great Lord and Ursurper. And if they got their filthy rookers on me carrying a gun, I was as good as like through, and maybe it might even lead them to who had sieved the old copter and all that cal. There was no choice.

And then the blasted sirens rang out from before us. We took a sharp turn, but ran straight into a bunch of millicents with clubs. They were caught by surprise, and Switch and I stormed through them real horrorshow, but they were close at our heels. Luckily I knew the area, I had ittied through a bolshy lot of times. There was a big fountain ahead, we already slooshied the great gurgle of water before us. So I pulled Switch along, around it, and then jumped right into the cold water. She muttered something like maniac, but followed. I waded across the lowest basin, the water going gurgle gurgle gurgle around me, until I had reached the old bolshy gratting where the water flowed down to be pumped up again. I knew that it didn't like sit in the hole that horrorshow, so it should work. I grabbed it with both rookers and gave it a little shake, and creak creak off it was, and we slipped in. It was inky spooky dark inside, and grahzny wet and vonny, and so slippery you could hardly keep yourself steady on your nogas. But it had to do for now.

"Oh", Switch said like impressed. "Brilliant, O my brother."

I checked on my old blaster, which had luckily not gone all wet, while slooshying to the sounds from outside. They were swarming out like a pack of vonny ants and had no idea where we were. I tried hard not to smeck, but the blasted water was loud enough, so it didn't have to worry me.

And then Switch viddied the gun. "So it's true after all, you having a blaster?"

"Flaming bloody true, O my little sister." The shoom of the millicents outside had not died down yet, so there was time enough to spare. "With this malenky spitter I sieved that copter, you'll remember." And I laid it into her trembling rooker - something my droogies would have been bolshy jealous about.

"You're an ittying weapons store alright", she said, carefully touching the trigger.

I only smecked at this and showed her the shiny blades in my belt.

"I merely wonder", she said slowly, "what thou needst all the veshches for."

A good question. Why actually? A blaster was a horrorshow thing, the same for my trusty britva. But what did I need them for? I'm not the sort of malchick who goes fillying and dratsing with any chelloveck just for the fun of it. I used to join in in those nasty malenky gang fights, but there wasn't going to be any this nochy, us having a rather rare period of peace. And we all didn't use the old blaster, rather our own bloody rookers, and sometimes stones, sticks, pocket-nozhes and all that cal, britva only rarely. And there I was, proud Lord and Ursurper of the nadsat underground, pondering why why why on earth I had a gun on me. "I dunno", I finally said, feeling that those were not the slovos Switch was expecting.

When we got out at last, we were wetty wet all through the sabogs and pantalonies, and we put some real skor on to be at old Tommy's soon. Tommy himself let us in, nearly smecking his gulliver off as he viddied us. He gave us some of his starry pyjamas to put on, as our own platties were not dry enough to sleep in them, and the same for all the veshches in the bag. Then we joined the others in his mesto, Matt in the top bed, the rest on the floor. Tommy shared his own with Carrie, she being almost like that bratchnie's devotchka, I couldn't believe it. I joined Chuck and Mick in their corner, and Switchy curled up right next to me, making our improvised like camp a horrorshow deal more cozy than it had been before. Still, I couldn't find sleep for some time, that blasted why why why spinning in my gulliver like a giant firewheel.

It was a Sunday, Sundays be praised, but still we got up early. We had a bit of fillying about who'd itty to the bathroom first, and later on because all malchicks wanted to shave at the same time - except malenky Matt, who doesn't really need it. Then there was that yummy yummy smell coming from the kitchen, the ptitsas, Matt and Tommy's P and M working at the breakfast already. Mickie, Chuckie and even the Great Lord Himself joined in, nearly driven bezoomny by that delicious fragrance of sausages, lomticks of baked ham and scrambled eggiwegs and all that. Tommy's P tried to find out who was who, and he kept mixing us up, saying "Charles, Michael, no, the other way 'round, who were you again?" until we had the whole kitchen smecking, and Mickie and Chuckie helpfully saying "Michael, Charles, Charles, Michael", but all at the same time so you couldn't understand a single slovo. It is true, we do look alike, especially in street platties and with dark otchkies on, but it's not that difficult: the Great Lord Himself is the tall one with the ponytail, Mickie is the malenky one and Chuckie is the one left. I've heard this is how they tell us apart at the old skolliwoll as well. With a good smeck I remembered the times when I still had had short voloss. But my droogies wouldn't let theirs grow, the bratchnies, so we miss some of the fun.

After we'd had a jaw over some breakfast, we got ready for the game. Soon we were ready and arrayed, and off we ittied, to the schoolyard.

There they were, three gangs at least, and standing somewhat away Reagan and old Larry, the latter ignoring the filthy lot's dirty goloss very velicky-like. He had a like pep-talk to us, telling us not to play dirty, hell nay we shouldn't, just to be on our guard. We were eager to play like sharks sniffing the krovvy flowing, but it took quite a time for the rest to decide who should have a go first. Some of them caught my glazz as I had viddied them before or knew them, as fatty old Springfield, in the same year as Chuck and me, the cross-eyed prestoopnick who called himself Tiger, shame some veck like this from time to time dares to ursurp such a name, one malenky plenny by the name of Lenny, and the Gordon twins, Graham and Gabriel. While they were making a great shoom govoreeting and fillying, I taught Julian how to pass the ball through between your nogas, this being one of my best tricks. And Julian was very eager to learn, hopping about in this horrorshow T-shirt with the slovo "Apocalypse" on it and his overlarge shorts.

Suddenly Chuckie came over and grabbed my pletcho. "They got nozhes, Bog blast them", he hissed into my ooko. "Just viddied it, no mistaking."

Immediately I informed Larry, and I hid my old britva in my carman. So did Tommy, Carrie and Julian, and Reagan wound a nice length of oozy round his rooker. Larry still was for a fair play, but I swore if any of these bratchnies should draw a weapon I'd skin his grahzny litso, and there was the rest going aye right right right, Larry agreeing after all, and then the game began.

Some of our filthy vonny opponents got big round glazzies when they saw me, the Great Lord and Ursurper Himself, joining the fray, and Mick and Matt smecked beyond the line like bezoomny. For it was well known that Tommy and I were enemies, even dealing out tolchocks in the corridors during the lunch break, this like sharpening me more up than the grahzny pishcha we used to get at school. 

And off we started, playing real horrorshow, from time to time Larry or Switch or Julian coming in from the bench. With my and Chuckie's help, it was no real bolshy trouble. Reagan was at our domy, preventing them from scoring, while Tommy, Chuck and I scored real horrorshow, and Carrie turning up from nowhere just when least expected. Matt and Mickie creeched their gullivers off for joy, feeling like Bog in Heaven just like the rest of us in our shiny tremendous power.

We won, and how! The Gordons wanted to go on, but the rest gave up and was defeated, and dirty vonny Tiger howling with like wrath. "Not expected that, eh?" Tommy mocked him. "Thou shalt never more dare to challenge me, dost thou slooshy, scoundrel?"

And then it was when he drew a nozh. So Chuckie had viddied it right. Out he whipped the blade shining, and Tommy dodging toppled over, but there I was, Lord and Ursurper, fisting him on the rot so hard that he fell and crumbled, and I set the old britva to his vonny neck. At once he turned all weepy-creepy, saying "Have mercy, Mylord, have mercy!", my droogies going haw haw haw behind me. And then Reagan went for Springfield to chain him on the gulliver, and soon we had the party going, big nasty dirty fight, me in the middle like thunder unleashed, making them viddy with their gaping glazzies what the Great Lord Himself was able to. That Lenny plenny was the first to run for it, and others followed, creeching and howling. At last that human mockery Tiger cleared off going boo hoo hoo, what a shiny fun, with his three own droogs, leaving fatty old Springfield alone with us.

"Well well well well, Springfield", Reagan growled, grinning all over his litso. "Bad luck seemingly. What a shame." I knew how he hated him, as they were juniors just like Chuck and me, same eleventh year. Yet we didn't have too many subbies together, the way like Chuck and I had it, bratties from our freshman time on.

"I'll report you at skolliwoll, so I will!" Springfield panted. We had a good smeck at this, for what should the old teachers do about us? Most of us were bloody well known to the headmaster. So what? I had always been the top student of my year, and my droogies' marks were also horrorshow above the blasted average. And Larry's banda were also not too bad, except Matt maybe, but owing to the fact he would become a freshman next year, him being not fifteen yet, you just couldn't count him.

And then Mickie, malenky Mickie, gave Springfield a real horrorshow kick in the bum, and off he ran like bezoomny, us going haw haw haw once more.

After this I ittied home to write my German essay. Switch and I would meet tomorrow after school, so I promised. In my own mesto, I at first slooshied a bit of old Richie, this giving me some good slovos, then started writing. It was something about like continuing a story, some veshch I'm horrorshow good at. When I at last put the pen down, it was not far from nochy. I rang up Chuckie to ask him what was up, but he said he was watching the old telly, Terminator or some of that cal, so I spent the evening all on my oddy knocky in front of my faithful compy, Mick being out with his P and M.

The next day was Monday, grahzny Monday. Blessed be old Garfield, he expresses all my bloody feelings towards this thrice accursed part of the week. Mickie, Chuckie and I met before school as usual, making one more grahzny week begin with the like usual. Then we like split up, Mickie ittying to his freshman History Class, Chuck and I to our junior Mathematics Class. And skolliwoll began as always.

Well, not righty right as always. For after class the teacher barked: "Smith! To my desk!" I guessed he meant none other than my velicky self, but there were two more malchicks and one ptitsa in my year with that same eemya, so I like waited and viddied. Our Maths teacher is horrorshow fond of barking, so I kindly gave him the chance for some more shoom of his and let Chuck smeck some more with his gulliver hid in his bag. "Smith!" he repeated, going a malenky bit redder in the litso. "I mean you! Yes, you! Come on, up you get!"

"Me, sir?" I asked, all humble and innocent, rising slowly.

"Yes, you." His rot started twitching, a sign that he would soon govoreet away in what he believed to be a very sarcastic way. "I am talking to glorious Smith, who seems again not to take notice of authorities."

Kiss my sharries, I thought, but loud I say: "Ah, aye, glorious Smith you mean. Yes, sir, Smith the Glorious at your service. I have great respect for authorities. What can I do for you, sir?" With half of the malchicks and ptitsas smecking, I ittied up to his bolshy desk. He could not harm me, hell nay, not the Great Lord Himself in all his outshining glory as this inferior brute perceived it haw haw haw, I always had good marks, and I was well liked by most of the other teachers.

His glazzies narrowing in what he thought a like impressive way, he said: "Headmaster's office, Smith. Now. Looks like you're in trouble."

"Oh, I disagree, sir, if you don't mind my saying so", I answered in my gentleman's goloss. "The headmaster, Bog bless him, likes me, for why else should he call me to his office that often?"

"Off you get!" he grunted, knowing no reply to this. "And get a haircut one day."

It was very hard to wipe this broad grin off my litso as I entered the headmaster's office. The headmaster was a short, baldish veck with thick otchkies and a stern, but fatherly expression, close to the gossuderry sort in my opinion. "Ah, Smith", he said in this sometimes strangely tired goloss of his. "Do come in. And take a seat."

"Thank you, sir." I sat down opposite him at his real bolshy desk, awaiting what was to come. But I knew for sure that I had nothing to fear. For the great headmaster did indeed in his endless grace have a favour for my unworthy self, for the malchick who had repaired his compy when it had been devoured by hosts of grahzny vires. Yet he had never found out that the same decent malchick had carried out in his carman all the school compy codes existing, hastily scribbled down on a malenky scrap of paper. Nobody knew I had cracked them all, nobody but Mickie and Chuckie, who were horrorshow proud on me. I had worked on them for a bloody long time, until finally the screen showed me what I wanted to viddy, defeated by the glorious GLH playing cute malchick real horrorshow.

"A certain Henry Springfield has been here to visit me", he announced. "About what happened yesterday. You have been mentioned, my young friend. According to Springfield, you were the first to draw a knife."

"They all were armed", I said, "even though we only were playing basketball, and I was not the first to draw the britva - razor blade I mean, begging your pardon - , I only did it in defence of my comrades."

"This teenage talk is interesting", the headmaster said thoughtfully. "Well, I can imagine that it was not you alone. But those stories are getting too much now. You had better take more care. If not for your great intelligence and talents, you might have been expelled earlier already."

I nodded right right right, well knowing my situation. But I didn't govoreet back. For there, right before my glazzies, was one of the headmaster's notes indicating another student was in trouble. It was written in the Maths professor's vonny handwriting. And it was about one Thomas A. Anderson, sophomore. Well well well, so I was not alone.

"Furthermore", he continued without noticing what I had viddied, "you are blamed to have threatened a couple of sophomores because of the school theatre."

"Oh yes", I said. "I only told them I was going to be Judas and not them. If they got me wrong, this was not my fault."

This being a very traditional school, we had those plays every year, Christmas Pageant and Easter Passion, all that Bible cal. And both of them were really gang-dominated, for the students involved would get some pretty polly and the liking of many teachers. Larry's banda and mine were the most dominant, and so we were those who chose many of the actors or brought some more in. The younger of Mickie's two sisters had been Baby Jesus, for example, and she had bitten the malchick playing Joseph so badly that his caring M had taken him to hospital to let it sew. But it was not the Pageant that was reason for fighting that much, it rather was the Passion. There you had some tolchocking and fillying on stage, and one malchick even crucified, a horrorshow fun of course. The role of Jesus therefore was the one for freshmen not knowing their danger, while those of Judas, Caiphas and Pilate, the so-called bad guys, and also that of St Peter, were absolutely the best. I had been Judas ever since I had started this school, and I was not going to let anybody else play it. I enjoyed being the ultimate enemy, the one causing the glorious shiny Jesus, Bog blast him, to fall. And I enjoyed watching Mickie, the henchman with the old hammer and nails, doing his job after fillying with the bratchnies from the crowd a bit. Chuck and I had brought him in in our own freshman year already, so he was well known and feared for his grahzny acts now and still but a malenky freshman himself. Last year Tommy had been assigned to play Jesus by our R.E. teacher (she being a devotchka had wanted old Jesus to be handsome, Tommy really being in high course among the giggly ptitsas), and at the last rehearsal Mick had been caught trying to hammer a vonny real nail through his rooker, bolshy scandal following. But they couldn't kick us out, hell nay. We were there and we had the roles we wanted. And the GLH was Judas as long as he liked to!

After I had been flooded with some more like advice for my grahzny vonny behaviour, I was dismissed and hurried to be on time for my next lesson.

After the old skolliwoll was finally over for the day, I picked up Switch for lunch, and then I went to check on Tommy, a certain scrap of paper in my carman. His M answered the door again, his P being off rabbiting, and I heard as she called: "Tom, you have a visitor! Either Charles or Michael, I'm not sure." I had a malenky smeck at this, as I was the one easiest to recognize.

Tommy was like caught by surprise as he viddied me, but took me in. "Explain, O my brother", he said.

"Bolshy big trouble, droogie. Guess what I saw in the HM's office? Special conference on Thomas A. Anderson."

This gave him a grahzny scare, it was easy to viddy. "So what shall we do now?" he asked, forgetting that he was too proud and velicky to ask the Great Lord Himself for advice.

"Check on the private files", I said. "Viddy what they've got on the old database, O my little brother."

"You mean... hack the skolliwoll mainframe? Thou art out of thy gulliver?" Tommy was well known for being a real horrorshow hacker, but he wouldn't risk that, I was sure.

At this point I handed him the veshch I had been carrying in my carman. "No bolshy rabbit. Rejoice, for the Lord and Ursurper is great and powerful."

He stared at my handwriting in mild surprise. "What are these?"

My rot got all twisted with a broad grin. "All the codes ever used since I've come to that vonny place. Thy key, O my companion in arms."

To this he said nothing, he only fed the compy the juice, and in no time we were there at the teachers' most private sanctum, stealthy strike to the core. And there it was, a bolshy big deal on Tommy. Fillying with freshmen, crasting in the yard, grahzny goloss to teachers and all that cal. I smecked out gromky when I viddied it, Tommy being rather terrified and swearing to himself. "You know", I said, "good marks is not all, bratty. Something you should have learned by now." For this was how it was done according to the GLH: real horrorshow marks and clean records with most of the profs. No grahzny goloss, hell nay, just some slovos here and there. And you'd surely make it the shiny way.

Tommy then asked me what I'd been doing at the HM's, and I told him. To my own bolshy great surprise I continued: "Maybe we should have a thinky about who plays which part, my laddies and old Larry's, eh?"

"I'm just telling you one thing", he replied. "I'm not vonny old JC anymore, not with Mick as the henchman and not with anyone. I'd like to be Pilate this year. Or old Pete. Larry's sharp for Caiphas as far as I know. And Reagan's in for the captain once more, the captain of the guard, you know. He was dealing out real horrorshow tolchocks to those little bratchnies last time, remember?"

We both smecked, and I said:" Just you watch it that we have our malchicks in the narod party as well; they'll push them clean into the guards' rookers!"

"Righty right", he went on, "and we'll see for Matt's in this time. Matt and your Mickie together, must be like fun."

"S'pose so, droog."

Then I had a malenky viddy at all his illegal discs. Tommy burns DVDs, real horrorshow thing to do. He fits them on two diskies nicely and sells them at skolliwoll, and he does grope at the deng this way, and not too bad.

Then Tommy's P came home, and before I could say a single slovo I found my velicky self invited to dinner by him. Me, the GLH, having dinner at Tommy's? A few days ago I would have smecked at this idea. But now I said righto. My own P and M were not at home anyway, not for the whole week, how shiny nice, so nobody cared.

The next day I woke up from the grahzny ring ring ring of the phone, Chuckie trying to persuade me to run an alty instead of skolliwoll, but I said we were going and no alternatives, hell nay, or else I'd kick his dirty litso in. The truth was, I had a date with Switchy-Witch after school again, and I didn't want to miss it.

We had a morning at school like every grahzny morning before, all the same cal. But then, Johnston and Barnhardt, my old allies, came with a story of the like you rarely slooshy, hell nay indeed. Some marauding malchicks wanted to set the Dead City on fire, so they said, the part in the outskirts of the town where nobody lives anymore and where many empty buildings are. It's where the nadsats usually meet, and where the bandas keep strolling around looking for some nice horrorshow competition. Set the Dead City on fire? Bezoomny veshch to do, and I actually didn't believe it. Maybe they were planning to play with grenades, but a bolshy fire... nay indeed.

On our way home, Chuck, Mick and I were given the stoy by Tommy and Carrie. We were quite used to this, us having a bit of fillying after school only too often, but this time it was for another reason.

"Have you slooshied, O my brothers?" Carrie asked. "What old vonny Springfield's involved in? Sounds like they're celebrating with Prince Devouring, eh?"

"S'pose they won't, O my sister", Chuckie answered in my place - unusual veshch, he's the most silent of us bratties. "S'pose they're govoreeting like unicorn tales."

"Not that we believe that cal", Tommy assured him, litso shiny with a grin. "S'pose what you s'pose, O my brother Charlesmagne."

"S'pose we dunno yet", Mickie put in. I had only waited for him to open his bolshy rot - one more prediction by the GLH come true. "No use govoreeting, O my big brothers."

"No use s'posing", I told him in my best you'd-better-watch-it rumble. "We'll go and check on them."

"How the hell are we gonna find the bratchnies?" Mickie asked with a sulky tone mingled in the goloss.

I gave him a soft loving tolchock, just a subtle lead. "Chuck", I said.

"Here, O dauntless tyrant of the unworthy city", Chuckie answered blinking, drawing himself up proudly. "What is thy bidding, my master?"

I usually allow Chuck to address me like that, but not with outside malchickiwicks slooshying. So I simply cast him a grahzny flaming trademark fry-look to give his thinking a prod.

Chuck swallowed. "Ah, Springfield. Yes. His HQs." He pulled from his jacket a starry map of the city, marked with signs in different colours. His glazzies told me that he deemed it a bezoomny veshch to do, for this map was one of our top flaming secrets. But right now I didn't give a cal for my droog's opinion. I had something to discuss with my bratty Tommy. Bratty, hell aye.It dawned on me only now. Tommy and my velicky self had become like bratties yesterday.

Tommy and Carrie gave the markings a curious glazz while my droogies and I stood a bit aside watching their reactions. This is to say, Chuckie and I did. Mickie was only gazing at Carrie's plott, useless malenky sod. She was a horrorshow devotchka, that was flaming righty right, nonetheless, this was like rabbit for us, no staring now. "You viddy Mickie?" I murmured into Chuckie's ooko. "Glazzies full on her groodies."

"We all shall fall", Chuckie stated wisely.

Carrie turned to us. "Red one, north-east?"

"Just that", Mick hurried to answer. "HQs and store at the same time. Guarded by some starry veck who lives in the upper floor."

"Our archives say just the same", agreed Tommy. "Only not the blasted location. Marc should update it."

"I followed them", Mickie told them proudly. "Spied it out." This was right, Mickie was a real horrorshow spy, the best I'd ever viddied in all my banda malchick jeezny.

"Let me do it this time", Tommy volunteered. "I have a like private cross with those vonny prestoopnicks."

"So have I", I replied, remembering the HM's slovos in his office. And nobody was to take that treat-game from me.

"Leave it to me", Tommy snarled, fighter spirit waking once more.

"Nobody but I shall do it", I growled. "Heed my slovos, O my brother." Gone was the bratty thought, fluttering away in the biting wind. This was a bloody question of honour. Our glazzies locked into each other's, we faced each other, neither of us ready to give in. Tommy slowly lifted a rooker, and I prepared for blows to fall. You watch it, useless pretty-boy. You watch it.

Surprisingly, Carrie stepped between us. "Cut it", she barked, and I viddied Tommy flinch as he slooshied her command. "If you can't work it out I'll itty all on my oddy knocky and do it myself." Her gaze wandered over the assembled malchicks around her. "Or take Mickie here along."

Mickie's glazzies bulged, and his litso shone with delight straight away, but this veshch both Tommy and I couldn't tolerate, hell nay. "We'll itty together", he offered, and I generously accepted - to Mickie's bolshy disappointment.

But first all of us ittied home to fill our grumbling stomachs. I got some skolliwoll rabbit done, then I got ready for the malenky assignment I had given my worthy self. I stuffed my britva into my carman, slid my trusty Desert Eagle under my jacket, put on my black otchkies and marched off to pick up Tommy.

It was quite a way to Springfield's vonny hideout. Tommy and I spent the time govoreeting about school, teachers and the like, then turned to devotchkas, a more interesting topic. He said he preferred the dark-haired warrior like, especially those with their voloss cut short. (Carrie and he shared a haircut, Beatles style. Switchy had hers even shorter, just the sort of like fluffy brush you simply fancy to stroke.) I told him that the haircut didn't matter a lot to me, I liked strong, skorry, well-built devotchkas, and intelligent too.

"You're into Switch?" he asked, smecking.

"Aye, I like am", I confessed. "She's really not bad, you know."

"Guess I noticed that, O my brother."

Once more I realized that he used very much the same slovos like my droogs and I did. "Read Shakespeare?"

"Righty right thou art. Carrie and Larry too. The whole rest not that often, but even old Reagan does sometimes."

I grinned. At least they had taste.

Tommy was silent for a moment. "They say you got all of Wagner in your gulliver."

Well govoreeted, droog. "Righto. Good old Richie. Not all, but a horrorshow lot."

Tommy emitted a soft, like admiring whistle. "Not bad. 'Tis true you had malenky Lucy?"

"Well, aye", I had to admit. Was that ptitsa creature showing off? "How d'you know?"

"From her." He grinned at me, but it was no sneering at all, this time nay. It was the slightly mocking grin of a droogie. "Gotcha."

"I'll kick her grahzny litso in!" I hissed, at once real like razdraz. I had told her to keep her vonny rot shut. I had the hell told her.

"I already did it for you."

"What?" I stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, not believing what I just had slooshied.

"You got me right." With a malenky smeck, he repeated: "I already did it for you."

"You... Why?" Aye, why should he do so?

"Well well well, O my brother, you're an ally. You've been since Saturday afternoon, remember? I usually stand it for my like allies."

I wouldn't have expected that, hell nay. I myself did, but Tommy... "Just the same like me, bratty", I said finally.

"Wanna slooshy what she said?" he asked, ramming his elbow into my plott in a like droogie-way.

"Righto, let me know."

He grinned and rolled his glazzies. "Hot. Damn hot. Like you say, flaming hot. But that wasn't all." He paused and threw me a taunting look. "Then she started describing the parts of you she'd viddied."

"Can't be much", I said. "Important Lord and Ursurper Rule: Never let a ptitsa viddy too much."

"Oh nah, I disagree!" Tommy called out merrily. "Carrie knows everything."

"Carrie's not Lucy", I replied. "She govoreeted to thee, by the way?"

"To me? Not directly. She's not that gulliver-hollowed yet, thinking I'm like interested in your sixpack." Once more he grinned. "Nay, I slooshied it as I prepared for the usual crasting. I always take sweets from the malenky ptitsas, you know."

"The slovo hath reached my ooko", I answered, nodding. And the HM also knew, as I had viddied. Moreover, I had kept close watch on Tommy in the glorious days of our flaming hatred. And I knew how he did it. He played the old charmer, and then he took what he wanted, by force if need be. Trademark Tommy game. Some of those filthy malenky ptitsas were flaming in love with him and gave him their veshches freely, but some were real frightened. That Lucy creature had even come to me for protection, offering me whatever I wanted for like reward, especially her plott. I had accepted, but it hadn't been that horrorshow, so the only thing I had done about her grahzny Tommy problem was fisting him on the rot as I used to do anyway.

In the meantime we had reached our destination, filthy vonny Springfield's lair. It was a rather malenky, lowdown house, dusty, dirty, only two floors, windows all cracked and broken in the vonny lower. The upper was actually occupied by some chelloveck, some starry prestoopnick who was close to like bratties with fatty old Springfield and would chase off any other banda malchick lurking here.

He had never met the Great Lord Himself, though. And it was high time he did. I picked up a bolshy stone from the gutter, took aim and swirl clash threw it right through the window, Tommy smecking hee hee softly behind me.Then I waited, rookers in carmans, grin perfectly in place on my litso.

It didn't take long. The smashed window was popped open, and out shot that vonny veck's gulliver crech creech creeching away at me real razdraz. I didn't mind him a cal, I only called up: "Thou, tell that dirty hound Springfield the Lord and Ursurper was here! Just for a warning!" Then I turned on my heels and disappeared, Tommy faithfully treading my track.

Around the corner we stopped. If Springfield was there, he or one of his droogies would surely show his filthy litso. So we waited. And waited. But nobody came, no single vonny sod. It was flaming hot there in the sun although it was only the first day of March yet, so I opened my jacket. And Tommy viddied the handle of my old blaster. "Hey", he said. "So you got it with you. May I have a viddy?" He didn't seem that impressed as I the hell wanted him (When thinking of the last time I'd used it... not too pleasant memories for him, for sure!), but nonetheless I pulled it out and held it in front of his litso.

"Man", Tommy said. "A Desert Eagle. You too." And then he did what I expected least: he produced his own Desert Eagle. "S'pose you got it from a rozz, like me."

"Erm... aye", I said, completely astounded. "I didn't know you had one too." The next moment I felt grahzny foolish and wished I had held my rot.

Tommy grinned so broadly I felt like tolchocking him right in the litso. "I've got some more at home. 5Ks, two of them. And a real big rifle, a -" But right then his cell phone rang, and he grabbed it from his carman and flicked it open. "Hello?"

He walked a bit away from me while govoreeting, and swallowing down my anger I strained my ookos to slooshy what he was saying, yet the blasted old wind was blowing in the wrong direction.

Then Tommy carmanned it again and came back. "What's up?" I asked.

"'Twas Marc", Tommy said, me only now noticing that his litso was suddenly all ashy pale. "We've gotta get outta here real skorry."

"What's giving you the prod?" I asked, frowning. I have a real horrorshow frown as far as I know, makes the situation dramatic. Now, as I felt, there was no real need to, for he already looked like Bog Himself had smitten him reaching down from Heaven with His bolshy vonny rooker. What was that he had been govoreeting with the backup?

"They're really gonna give the old Prince Devouring to the quarter, O my brother", he said, clutching my rooker. "We'd better do something. Skorry."

"Ye Gods", I murmured. Set the whole Dead City on fire, or what? So it was true after all. "Who?"

"Springfield's lot's indeed involved. And many more. Marc sent the rest on the march already."

I roared a grahzny swearword at the wall, which didn't care, then grabbed Tommy and started running. My main concern were my droogies being somewhere out there; and Switch, where was she? Running, I checked if my old blaster was well hid under my jacket, and Tommy did the same. Half the street was filled with vecks and devotchkas, and Tommy and I fought our way all through them, dealing out tolchocks everywhere and not viddying what we hit. We ran ran ran, through yards and streets, driven by like fear and despair, hell aye. I dreaded to be too late, I was afraid like never before in my whole jeezny. And there we were finally, flames leaping already up out of crumbling roofs, malchicks running, cries cries cries.

Tommy and I stopped for a moment to regain our breath and check on our blasters. "I only hope Carrie got at the weapons in time", he panted. "Larry's got the leisure key." And I, the GLH and once his sworn enemy, hoped with him.

Then on we ittied, nay, ran. A few times we were blocked by a banda of malchicks, but viddying the guns they tore off real horrorshow. Only once some prestoopnick kept giving us the stoy, but I gave him the britva in respond, red red krovvy splashing and me not caring. And on we stormed like the Valkyries riding on the wings of thunder, me believing to slooshy them in waves of old Richie's music, riding riding riding. I must have been razdraz like glorious Wotan himself going to battle, wielding the great Spear of Doom.

Voices rang out from before us, nearly covered by the raging of the flames, but still gromky enough. Mickie and Chuckie! And malenky Matt was with them. They were fighting on their oddy knocky, thrice outnumbered but still not down to the dust, especially Chuck dealing out tolchocks like Fafner Reincarnate, dauntless as he can be, and I was proud of my droogs. Forth we sprang, Tommy and me, and they wavered as the Lord and Ursurper came over them. Blades met, nozh to britva, Tommy opening the fire pang pang pang and them creeching away. And there came Reagan with his swishy wishy chain reminding me of the old Rampaging Hulk as I viddied him, Larry and Julian at his side, and Apeman from Lock's gang and Dave from Sparks'. We'd put the whole cal alright real horrorshow.

Those bratchnies who remained standing were off like the wind, the rest lying on the sidewalk moaning, but nobody killed, Tommy being a grahzny bad shot. Larry informed us of what was being played. Carrie and Switch were at their posts with Lock and Sparks and the rest of their bandas giving the Dead City a backup cover. The core was left to us.

We split into malenky groups to check on those sods, Larry and Julian, Reagan and Dave, Apeman and Matt, Chuck and Mick, Tommy and the GLH, and started off after Tommy had passed his blaster on to old Larry and me giving him one of my three spare mags. (They hadn't got at the weapons store in time.) As Tommy and I ittied up the road, the whole sky seemed to be soiled by smoke. Sirens howled in a distance, but it would take them quite a time until they'd manage to come through, half of the roads being blocked up real horrorshow to leave the Dead City to Prince Devouring's flaming reign.

And then we viddied him, the old bratchnie Springfield himself with his two faithful droogies, standing on a low roof with some veshch that looked like a petrol barrel. I felt Tommy's rooker on my pletcho. "Bolshy big trouble, Lordie", he murmured into my ooko. "Let's hope we go unnoticed."

But Springfield had viddied us already. "I'll have your yarbles off lovely, Smith and Anderson!" he roared. "Just you wait!" And then, without warning, he fired. Bullets whistled around our gullivers as I dived into cover through the doorless entrance of the next house, pulling Tommy with me.

We found ourselves in a dusty vonny mesto, spooky dark and dirty. With a moan, Tommy held onto me. "He got me", he said. "That bratchnie got me." At the pletcho, his shirt was going wet with krovvy.

I hissed a curse. "You alright?"

"Guess I will", Tommy muttered, litso twitching with pain.

And right then they came. A bunch of bolshy vecks they were, armed with clubs, smecking haw haw haw as they approached us. "So so so", their frontman said, "we seem to have the Lord and Ursurper in our rookers, bratties!" And on they smecked.

I whipped out my britva, blaster still hid in the jacket, and slid into combat stance. Like ugly big trolls they came, swinging their vonny weapons and grunting. As the first club fell, I dodged it and slashed up the britva in a shiny silver arc, ripping deeper than the platties, then left him to Tommy, who tolchocked him straight in the litso despite his wounded pletcho. While he made his dirty litso a krovvy-bath I dealt with the next, giving him my clawing rooker in the glazzies. The next felt my trusty britva again. But then one of them got me, the stinging pain of a pocket-nozh in my side. I staggered away, britva slipping from my flickering fingers. Two of the bratchnies followed, but I could kick the club out of one's rooker. The other got me by the shirt and pulled me towards him, yet the ugly sound of my shirt tearing raz rez raz made me so bezoomny I banged my gulliver into his litso hard. His creech was pure joy for my ookos. My side throbbing with pain, I dived for my britva. There I lay, one rooker clutching my side, the other the old britva, the Great Lord Himself covered in dust. But I had to go on, I knew I had to. I felt my own krovvy going drip drip drip down my stomach, all wet, warm and slippery. And this made me real razdraz. Up I leapt, glazzies surely ablaze, and my britva met its target. Krovvy went splashing, a rain of red to cool down my flaming rage. Tommy in the meantime fought real horrorshow. At last those who still could fled, the others rolling moaning or lying senseless on the ground with sacklike plotts.

I gasped for air. My plott hurt like bezoomny, but I took Tommy by the pletcho (the whole one). "Let's see for we're off, O my brother", I told him.

But then we heard it: the shoom of embers cracking and the raging of greedy flames above our gullivers. The house was a victim of Prince Devouring already; Springfield must have ordered it. "Out out out!" Tommy yelped just as parts of the ceiling came crashing down. But I don't know what was on my mind then. I pointed to Springfield's vonny bratchnies. "We take them out as well", I commanded, grabbing one by his platties and struggling to get his heavy plott out of the mesto. It didn't even seem like pathetic to me, I simply did it. And Tommy came to my aid. Together we got those dirty prestoopnicks out, although I had great difficulties to set one noga before the other in the end. Around us the mesto came tumbling down, and flames leapt up behind. We could have felt real horrorshow, like heroes, if not for that grahzny pain. I felt my own krovvy still flowing, one of my jacket sleeves was burnt, the sweat kept running under the black otchkies into my glazzies, the handle of my faithful blaster rubbing painfully against my chest. And the heat was terrible. Tommy and I were breathing vonny ashes and coughing like bezoomny kashl kashl kashl, glazzies clouded with tears. These tears would occasionally run over our cheeks, always when we had to close our glazzies to keep out the sweat that would sear and burn inside. I could imagine the like light lines they drew through my ashy-darkened litso, and I viddied them on Tommy's. Finally I came to the last. Although it felt like my rookers would come off I grabbed him and picked him up. It was one of those who had tasted the britva. And he knew me straight away although he was like in the land. He clenched his vonny fingers in the front of my shirt raz raz and tried to fist me on the rot, but I threw him over the threshold with my last strength remaining and kicked his plott away, then fell down to my knees fighting for air, the GLH exhausted and defeated and just wanting to be home home home.

Tommy sank down beside me, shaking me on the pletcho. "Springfield... up there", his voice came in a like agonized goloss. I looked up. And I viddied him up there, ready to light up the ropey on the grahzny barrel. Petrol, even more my guess now. They were enjoying themselves, gromky smecks carried away by the smokey wind. The sirens were still far off. And then I knew what I had to do. I drew my trusty Desert Eagle and squinted up at him. Fight it out, Lord and Ursurper. Now. Or else Prince Devouring has won the game. Last roll. Last chance. I hacked my zoobies into my yahzick as I took aim. My fingers felt all wet with sweat. My rooker shook. Nonetheless I remained like calm when I clicked up the old locker and felt the trigger yield to my finger. I felt better now. Definitely. The shoom of the shot like woke me up - and bade Springfield good-night. I've never viddied anything like that before, not in any of the veshches I used to viddy at the sinny with my droogs. The bullet hit him clean and blew his gulliver apart, krovvy splattering and some reddish white cal flying as it exploded. Ye Gods, it was real horrorshow. And at the same time, the worst veshch I ever viddied.

But Springfield's vonny droogies recovered real skorry and bang swish poof a bullet struck the wall behind me. Then I didn't wait any longer and fired in response. Both fell down without a sound as I blew their gullivers off. But I fell too, lying on my back on the sidewalk, exhausted and disgusted, feeling like just a malenky malchick, tired and lonely and a long way from home. My whole plott was aching like bezoomny. And the vonny smoke made me choke and cough. There the shoom of sirens was again, and Tommy's breath going skorry. And fog. Tons of fog.

And then he came. He must have been like Last Man Standing of Springfield's vonny lot; I will never know and am not sorry about this. Dimly I could slooshy Tommy cry out to warn me, but his noga already hit my plott, hard. I moaned and rolled over, but as he followed to give me the next in the back I let my rooker jerk up real horrorshow, gun suddenly pointing at his grahzny litso. I wanted to pull the trigger, but the vision of his gulliver cracking apart just as those of the others made me want to be sick, so I didn't. I just pointed it at him, lying on my back and looking up at him.

He was startled, but didn't back away. I guess he was pushing his luck and knew bloody well what he was playing at. Anyway, I don't care, not a malenky bit, hell nay. "Lord and Ursurper, my bratty", he mocked me. "A horrorshow state to viddy you in. Bet you something. When you look me in the glazzies, you don't dare to give me the snuff. Never met a veck who dared. And you're just a malchick. C'mon, Lord and Ursurper. Look me in the glazzies. Do it."

I answered his gaze without blinking. Aye, I was still a skolliwoll malchick and he seemingly wasn't. But he'd put it right, I was the Lord and Ursurper. And if he the hell risked his miserable jeezny, it was all his fault. Slowly, to show him how much he was wrong, I took my otchkies off. "Does the bet still stand?" I asked and was amazed to slooshy my own calm goloss.

At first he seemed somewhat uncertain, but then he nodded slowly, still staring me flaming straight in the glazzies.

I felt something harden within. It was a real horrorshow feeling, like your guts covered in durasteel. And then again, it was spooky scary, it gave me the creeps. "Righto", I said. "Then prepare to what awaiteth thee, O my brother, for good or ill. Thou hast chosen death." It was so easy. What I realized was, your glazzies are so far away from your rooker. Your glazzies tell you not to do it, they viddy a malchick just like you, who has all his jeezny before him, but the mind centre for your rooker doesn't viddy, it thinks. And it's quite calm. It's horrorshow cool. It is remorseless. So I shot him through the chest, never turning my glazzies away, not even when he was dying. His glazzies bulged strangely as he snuffed it, bolshy lot of white showing, while the red red krovvy spurt out like rain over my plott drip drip dripping on my nagoy skin where the razrezzed shirt didn't cover it anymore. Springfield's vonny prestoopnick swayed upright and fell, and although I tried to roll aside real skorry he buried me under him with his heavy plott. And then the fog was there again, the sirens even nearer, growing gromky slowly, Tommy somewhere, and voices, voices calling calling calling. I closed my glazzies and drifted off, not feeling the pain anymore. I believed to slooshy old Richie's sweet melody of the Flying Dutchman's redemption, and I felt I was quite safe and there was nothing to worry about.

But then they stirred me up again, with slovos like the GLH was dead and all that cal, and Tommy telling them nay, and then that old bratchnie's heavy plott was rolled off me and they crowded all round me, bolshy narod party from the shoom. And then a rooker gently touched my cheek and called me to like jeezny again. I opened my glazzies to the light and the pain, and there was Switchy bending over me and making me grow all like warm inside. And there were Mickie and Chuckie, my old droogies, patting my pletchoes with jolly smecks as I sat up. "You alright?" they asked at the same time and then smecked at their own folly. Switch wanted to check on me, but I said I'd be pretty righty right and no nervy worries. Lock was there, too, and said that the old firemen had got through at last and the millicents were ahunt and wanted to see us for our unselfish braveness, heroes as we were. Despite the still throbbing pain I just had to grin. Horrorshow veshch, aye. And Switch, my malenky Switchy-Witchy was here with me. What more should I ask for?

Then the rozzes picked us up. They were especially interested in the banda leaders, this being Lock, Sparks, Larry and me, and Carrie and Tommy in addition, and the inseparable duo, my old companions Johnston and Barnhardt, who had fought at Larry's side following my example. I knew my flaming danger, so I passed the blaster and mags on to Switchy. I did it quite clever, masterpiece of the GLH so to say. I pulled her close, so that I could feel her plott close to mine, litso hid in her brushy fluffy hair, while I carefully led her rooker under my jacket. "Take it, take it", I whispered into her ooko. And she understood. Together we managed to slip the old blaster under her jacket. Then I secretly let the mags wander into her carmans, one for each.

She thought that was it and enough of the game, but she wasn't quite right about this. I had reserved a special honour for her. As she wanted to let me go, I pulled her even closer, lifted her chin up with my rooker and kissed her. It must have really caught her by surprise, but she didn't bite or kick or give me a tolchock. She accepted. She must have known what a very special honour this was, she being the first devotchka I ever kissed in my jeezny. I used to have a ptitsa from time to time, hell indeed, but I had never kissed any of them. This was just too personal. They were there to give me what I wanted, that was all. Just the old in-out and then good night, goloovka. Just the short joy of a few svyet shiny moments, not even the whole nochy. For I would not give myself away, not the great glorious Lord and Ursurper. They told me I was cold. Well, they were righty right. They didn't mean a cal to me. But Switchy like did. And I knew that she knew. So as the millicents took us away, I smecked inside. Two with one strike.

We did a horrorshow rabbit at the questioning. We all agreed on me just having taken up the blaster one of those bratchnies had dropped and just fired on jolly-go-lucky, like simply trying. And they believed us. We got congrats and handshakes and all that like Honour From The Glorious Authorities, to hell with them, for helping them preventing the worst. And there were pics taken for all the vonny papers, yet all I wanted was itty home. Then they like checked on us and nursed all our grahzny injuries. I didn't want to, but they like stripped me down to the waist for my being drenched in krovvy that was actually not my own. But they like deemed it my own and searched every inch of my skin for its bloody source until they had found it. I told them I'd be all righty right, but they cleaned it and wrapped it like a malenky parcel. Tommy got an even longer treatment for the bullet still sticking in his pletcho. Finally they were done with us and let us itty home.

But as I arrived, who awaited me in my mesto? My malenky Switchy-Witch, my darling goloovka, she was there for me and had prepared something to peet already. My throat was so flaming dry, I was so glad she gave me some moloko. Then she sent me to lie down and get better while she got together some kleb and cheese and lomticks of ham and tomatoes and even some fried eggiwegs like we'd had at Tommy's. I was too tired to change to other platties, I just lay there viddying the ceiling approaching receding approaching receding until I felt sick.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I came to again, Switch was sitting next to me, running her fingers through my voloss. "Up you get, Hughie darling, there's something to eat", she told me. Strangely, the eemya Hughie didn't like bother me. Nobody actually called me with my real first eemya, nobody but Mickie and Chuckie maybe and my P and M, and nobody of all my droogs had ever dared to give me such a nickname. My official name was Lord and Ursurper, and at the old skolliwoll I was Smith, but Hughie... that was left to Switch.

I wasn't even angry at my droogie Mick for giving her the leisure key; that I heard from her as I asked her. There was hardly a veshch Switch couldn't do without me forgiving everything, hell aye.

While eating, I pondered it all a bit. A real like alliance between our bandas wouldn't be so bad. Horrorshow idea when I considered it. Real horrorshow idea.

All the time Switch sat close to me and made my breath go skorrier. I really wondered whether we would team up or not. However, the two of us certainly would.


End file.
